


sweet dreams

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, fibromyalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-03 23:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15829116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Seven years after a car crash that nearly ended his life, all Dean feels is pain, and Sam has done everything in his power to save him—short of visiting a so-called "angel" at a clinic only a select few can enter.





	sweet dreams

There has to be mold in the ceiling tiles, Dean thinks, oddly entranced with the ceiling itself and not the sickly voices surrounding him. Cracks rip through the gypsum surface, stained yellow in places; the one in the corner leaks into a half-empty bucket, dripping every five seconds, a rhythm Dean concentrates on, just to take his mind off where he is.

“There’s gotta be something you can do,” Sam echoes for the fifth time at the counter. Dean winces, closing his eyes. If only Sam would give up—if only Sam didn’t care so much, then they wouldn’t be here. “We’ve tried everything, he’s been on every pill we can find. Physical therapy, CBT, everything, and nothing’s worked, and—”

“You’re still a hundred short,” the woman behind the glass reiterates. Dean doesn’t even know her, but he can feel her frustration from across the room. Sam isn’t the first person to beg her for mercy, maybe not even today. “I’m not in charge of the rules, mister—”

“Winchester,” Sam mutters.

His sigh would tear at Dean’s heartstrings if he weren’t already so defeated himself, resigned to his body and the pain currently tearing him apart, every muscle constricted and burning simultaneously. All Dean wants to do is go home and pop as many painkillers as he can without overdosing and pass out for a few hours, anything to ease the ache behind his eyes. He hasn’t slept in a week save for the sporadic moments when he passes out from exhaustion, only to be woken up by muscle spasms and the urge to vomit himself sick. Just being out of bed hurts, and leaving the house, and sitting in this plastic chair with no back to lean into.

Nervously, Dean’s hands shake in his lap, and he bounces his leg, just to have something to do.

“There’s just… gotta be something,” Sam starts again, watery this time. “I’m begging you, he’s the only… He’s all I got.”

Opening his eyes, Dean glances across the waiting room in a haze, barely about to make out Sam’s shape and his fists pressed into his eyes. “This is all the money I have. Dean can’t work, and I’ve done everything I can just to get him here. Please, you gotta help us.” He swallows, and Dean just bows his head, fighting back the anguish in his throat, the urge to scream, to bang his head into the wall until he bleeds. It wouldn’t be the first scar in his collection.

The woman, with red hair pulled back into a ponytail and glasses shoved up her nose, just stares at Sam for a long, arduous minute before she scoots her chair back, presumably to talk to another nurse, or someone in charge, or… someone. Dean could honestly care less; maybe if no one shows up, they can leave, and never mention this again. It’s all a fable anyway, an urban legend spawned amongst patients in hospitals, about a clinic in the suburbs of Lawrence in a nondescript building, boasting that their nurses can cure anything, even the most aggressive cancer. All Dean knows is, they needed a password just to get in the door, and the place smells like mold and antiseptic.

He just wants to go home and sleep, preferably forever.

“Here’s what I’ll do.” The woman returns, not from behind the desk, but from the door leading to the office suites down the hall. Beckoning Sam over, she whispers, a hand over her mouth to disguise her words from the other patrons, but not from Dean’s ears. “The doc says he’ll discount you half of the original cost, but only if you can prove, without a doubt, that your story is true.”

Vehemently, Sam nods and fishes his phone from his pocket. “I got emails and receipts and EOBs, whatever you need, I can send it to you—”

“Charlie,” Charlie says, the faintest hint of a smile ticking her lips. “Dean,” and she turns to him, motioning her head towards the hall, “Dr. Novak will see you now.”

Sam helps Dean stand, despite Dean’s protests, and walks him across the room to where Charlie stands; she loops an arm around his waist and props him up, but not before Sam hugs him for luck, ruffling Dean’s hair along the way. It hurts: Sam’s touch, walking, existing—everything sets Dean’s blood boiling, even more than the inflammation itself. Every step leaves his feet stinging in his shoes. Never once does he whimper, though, or moan, or make any other noise as to alert Charlie or anyone else of his plight. They don’t need to bear his burden; that’s for Dean alone to suffer.

“I know this isn’t comfortable,” Charlie begins, leading Dean into a dimly lit room with a few plastic chairs and a twin mattress sitting atop a box spring, “but you’ll have to sit for a few minutes. Dr. Novak won’t leave you waiting long.”

“Thank you,” Dean mutters, haggard. Just barely, he holds off a cough, seating himself in one of the chairs nearest the sink. Just in case.

“You’re in good hands,” Charlie attempts to soothe. “I have to talk to your brother, but you’ll be okay.”

She leaves Dean with little more than a wave and shuts the door behind her, leaving him alone with only the noise of an aquarium to keep him company. Numerous fish swim in a tank shoved up against the wall, about six feet wide and three tall, ducking in and out of coral and rounding the volcano, chasing the bubbles. Dean envies them with all of his heart, their short lifespans and innocence.

He must doze off at some point, because the next thing he recalls is a warm hand on his shoulder and a set of blue eyes looking down on him. Dean blinks himself awake and thinks, for the first time in years, that his touch doesn’t hurt. “My name is Castiel Novak,” Castiel explains, tipping up Dean’s chin. Under his gaze, Dean shudders and looks around. A closed door, candles lit on the counter, soft music playing. Sam didn’t send him to get laid, did he? “I’ll be your physician for the day. Can you stand?”

Weakly, Dean shakes his head. “Can’t really walk these days,” he admits, feebly wiping at his eyes. If only he could see more than blurry shadows, could see through the tears that’ve never quite dried. “You some kinda faith healer?”

Castiel chuckles but offers his hands regardless. “Of sorts. I trust your brother told you why you’re here?”

Dean uses most of Castiel’s strength to right himself, nearly stumbling into his arms in the process. “Didn’t say much other than, ‘This guy’s legit, Dean.’” He shakes his head. “Sounds like a load of shit to me. No offense.”

“None taken,” Castiel says. “You wouldn’t be the first non-believer to walk into my practice.”

Gently, Castiel helps Dean onto the mattress, afterwards instructing him to lift his arms. “I need you to remove your shirt and pants,” Castiel whispers, much to Dean’s embarrassment. “I understand if you don’t want to, but it’ll help me know what I’m working with. This is for your health, Dean.”

 _His health_ , right. Like every other doctor hasn’t had him strip down under the same pretenses, just to see how his body is faring. _Not well_ , is all Dean can think. Nothing has been alright for the past seven years; no reprieve from the pain, no good days, no outings with friends or even casual trips in the car. Just back and forth, in and out of the hospital for days, weeks, months, all trying to help him. Nothing works, and Dean just wants it to end.

Castiel is… nice, though. Sweet, almost, in the way he helps Dean pull his shirt over his shoulders. The rest, Dean takes care of himself while Castiel pulls a large mound of a blanket from underneath the sink, setting it aside. And just like all of the other visits, Dean lies back on the mattress—an actual bed this time, not the cold plastic and paper protectors of exam room chairs—and watches Castiel go about his duties. Castiel wears a navy blue button down with black slacks, his hair mussed in every direction; emerald cufflinks adorn his wrists, and Dean finds himself transfixed, even after Castiel removes them and rolls up his sleeves.

What Castiel sees next, Dean knows all too well. Nimble fingers trace over the scars lining Dean’s wrists and over his chest, from cigarette burns and razor blades and the pocketknife he keeps in the glovebox of his car, when he can’t make it to his room in time. Ironically, the sting of self-inflicted wounds numbs the muscle aches, at least long enough for him to walk without feeling like he might pass out, or worse. “You’re a beautiful man, Mr. Winchester,” Castiel says, his voice the balm Dean didn’t know he needed. “What happened to you wasn’t your fault.”

Dean’s leg seizes; sucking in a breath, he straightens it back out, and his face burns red, knowing that Castiel just watched him almost scream. “Whatever you’re gonna do, just get it over with,” he hisses, throwing his head back. “Probably won’t work anyway, but take a shot. I’ve been through worse.”

“Your brother really didn’t tell you what this is, did he?” Castiel doesn’t give him a chance to answer that—not like Dean would reply, anyway. Instead, he drapes the blanket over Dean’s body, the weight easing his muscles to relax, even temporarily. Warm, is all he can think; warm and inviting, like a really good hug, back when he could feel it. “Every doctor in this office is an angel, myself included.”

Dean’s heart stutters painfully, breath coming even more labored than before. “You’re lying,” Dean wheezes, attempting to sit up. Castiel just holds him down with little effort, and Dean almost weeps with how soft his hand feels. “Angels—they’re just a fairy tale.”

“We’re anything but,” Castiel offers. “What makes you think that?”

“Because I prayed.” Dean swallows, his resolve crumbling; tears spill from his eyes. “Every night, I pray, and I beg for someone to make it stop, make it all stop, and no one ever comes. I thought…”

Quietly, Castiel shushes him, even while Dean’s chest caves with his sobs, body near-convulsing in agony. “I’m here now,” he soothes. Pressing a kiss to Dean’s hair, he smooths his hand over Dean’s forehead, through the sweat beading there. “I can remove your pain, if you’ll let me. You can return to your life, you can live again.”

“Please,” Dean begs, eyes pinched shut. He can’t stand to look at Castiel anymore, knowing what Castiel is, knowing he’s not worth such affection, such undue attention. “Please, not anymore, not…”

“Fibromyalgia doesn’t discriminate,” Castiel says as he presses his other hand to Dean’s stomach. “Most of the patients I see suffer a similar fate, but they’ve never waited as long as you have.” Softer, calmer. “Breathe, Dean.”

With burning lungs, Dean inhales—and feels. A rush of cold cascades through his veins and spreads into every corner of his body: behind his eyes, along his limbs, into his organs. Like a refresh, new blood being pumped into him, warming into his skin once again. He gasps out what has to be a wail, teeth gritted and back arched—and the pain stops. All at once, after years of being tortured by his own body, Dean revels in the utter bliss of numbness. Toes curl, eyelids flutter, hands fist the bedsheets; all he can do is sob once Castiel is finished, the sensation of _nothing_ too much to bear.

It worked. Whatever Castiel did worked. “I’m here,” Castiel speaks, the first words Dean has heard that haven’t hurt. “I’m here.”

“Don’t go,” Dean begs, for an entirely different reason this time. Everything he’s ever needed has always boiled down to comfort, but now, he craves it even more, just to help him come down, to make him feel at home once again. “Don’t go, don’t—”

“Rest,” Castiel urges. “Rest, I’m with you.”

-+-

Dean doesn’t remember the accident, not entirely. But, he remembers the days leading up to it. Sam’s birthday was coming, and with it, the end of the school year. All Sam talked about was what Dean planned to get him as a present, and their parents were busy trying to set up a party at the bowling alley. Dean spent the better half of a week shopping for Sam’s gift; whatever it was, he can’t recall now. Sam probably wouldn’t remember, and asking him has always been a sore spot both of them elected to ignore.

According to the emergency responders, someone ran a red light while high on prescription medications. No deaths, thankfully, but both Dean and his mother suffered the brunt of the impact: Mary with a shattered knee and lacerations to her face, while Dean lost feeling from the waist down for almost a month, half of which he spent unconscious. Whatever happened during and after, Dean has no recollection, but he knows one thing—the pain started then.

For the first time in seven years, Dean walks into his apartment without the aid of Sam or a cane, ache-free and oddly—if not terrifyingly—exhilarated. Whatever Dr. Novak did worked, and permanently, this time, like he ripped the inflammation straight from Dean’s bones. Worry still plagues him, though, as he stands in his and Sam’s kitchen with the world in his grasp. He can learn to drive now—he can learn to cook, and other things he had always neglected because he simply couldn’t. The one barrier in his life stripped away, leaving him free to follow whatever path he chooses, without limitations.

That, out of everything, scares him the most.

“I just can’t believe it,” Sam says for the fifth time that night, pacing the living room like he intends to wear a hole in the carpet. Dean, for the most part, lets him, too busy staring at his steady hands to care about much else. “You know, people always say miracles are real, but… I didn’t think it was possible. He could’ve been a fraud for all I knew, but I still had faith that he’d be able to help.”

Idly, Dean listens to him, still enrapt by his own body. Castiel even took away his scars. “If this is a dream, then I’m gonna kill you when I wake up,” Dean says, turning over his hands to look at his palms. From the window, Sam laughs. “I’m serious, I… This can’t be real.”

“It’s real, Dean,” Sam assures. “Trust me, I’m just as shocked as you are. But this is a good thing, y’know?” Crossing the room, Sam sits at Dean’s side, their shoulders bumping. For once, it doesn’t hurt. “Not that you couldn’t before, but you can finally do everything you’ve wanted to do. Go to school, work in mom’s garage, just go on a walk.”

Walking—Something so simple, yet something he hasn’t been able to do on his own for years, especially for leisure. “I can walk,” Dean says, covering his eyes. Now, when he cries, it doesn’t feel like the life is bleeding from his skin, like the very air is burning him alive. Like every breath isn’t a death sentence. “I can walk, Sammy.”

Sam wraps both of his arms around him, drawing him into an embrace that Dean can only describe as relief. No longer does Sam’s very presence hurt, at least physically. The internal scars though, built up from years of sitting on the sidelines with guilt weighing heavy on Dean’s soul, will never heal, no matter how hard he wishes. Years later, and the accident still feels like his fault. If he weren’t shopping for Sam, if he hadn’t been so adamant, then none of this would’ve happened.

Fibromyalgia had been his atonement, the cross he had to bear to make up for his mistakes—now, without it, what does he have?

 _I don’t deserve this_ , Dean thinks, sobbing into Sam’s shoulder, Sam’s shirt balled up in his fists. _I don’t deserve to feel good, I don’t deserve to live._

-+-

Around two the following morning, Dean’s cellphone vibrates awake, ringtone silenced in favor of sleep. Almost as an afterthought, he reaches over and glares at the caller ID, only to find an Lawrence area code staring back at him. Probably someone drunk dialing him, or a telemarketer working the night shift. Still, Dean answers it and lets his head drop back into the pillows, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders.

His first real sleep in what feels like decades, and someone wakes him up.

“Don’t know who you are, but this better be good,” Dean slurs, eyes shut to the dimly lit nightlight in the corner.

“This is Castiel,” Castiel rumbles over the line—Dean bolts upright, suddenly lightheaded. “I wanted to see how you were faring.”

“Dude,” Dean wheezes, a hand to the back of his neck. “Did you even check the clock?”

Castiel chuckles, warm and light, and Dean has never wanted to bask in something more. “I’m sorry if I woke you. I just finished my shift. We’re only open once a month, and I had patients scheduled until past midnight.”

Really, that makes sense. Granted, when he was in the office, Dean could barely see an inch in front of his face. “All that paperwork must suck,” Dean mumbles, falling back into the sheets. Overhead, the ceiling fan whirs, the steady oscillation no longer grating on his nerves. “I’m… fine, I think. I’m—I’m kinda freaking out.”

“How so?” Castiel asks, alert.

“Just… I’d been in pain for years, man. Almost half my life, all I’ve ever felt is this weight sitting on my lungs, and all of a sudden, I can breathe again.” He stops, drags a hand over his eyes; this time, he can’t even blame the tears on the disorder. “I don’t think I can take it, I don’t… I don't feel real—”

“Do you know where the lofts are?” Castiel asks, breaking Dean from his haze. “The apartments down the street from my office.”

“Yeah,” Dean sniffles. “Yeah, that’s where me and Sammy live.”

On the other end of the line, Dean hears Castiel shuffle about, a door closing in the background. Must still be at the office, or at least leaving. “I know this may be unorthodox, but I live on the top floor, if you need company. I’m more than willing to help in any way I can.”

Dean blinks away the tears; still, a few drops fall, soaking into his hairline. “What’s your unit number?”

Multiple times in the past, Dean has snuck out in the middle of the night, driven by insomnia to do something other than lie in bed and wallow in his own misery. Now under his own power, he leaves the apartment and locks the door behind him; hopefully, Sam won’t wake up and wonder where he’s wandered off to. Cold air meets his skin as he meanders the halls, and yellow lamplight illuminates his way, almost as bright as the moon overhead. If only he didn't live in the city, he thinks, tugging his coat tighter around him. He always wondered what the stars would look like away from the city glow.

Castiel lives four floors above him, far enough away from the elevator that Dean decides to take the stairs instead, now that he can. A gold Continental pulls into the parking lot by the time he makes it to the uppermost landing, and with his shivering hands to the metal railing, Dean watches Castiel pull himself from the driver’s seat, a tan raincoat draped over his scrubs. Even at a distance, he looks tired—is that even possible?

Whether or not Castiel sees him, Dean doesn’t know. For the entire time it takes for Castiel to ascend the stairs, Dean waits, elbows on the railing as he watches the stars; the night chill nips at his hands, not unpleasantly, just a gentle reminder that he’s outside, and for once, it doesn’t hurt.

He’s _free_.

“I’m sorry it’s so late,” Castiel says from down the hall.

Turning to face him, Dean finally takes in Castiel with clearer vision: hauntingly blue eyes stare back at him, the depth there almost indescribable; a breeze gusts down the hall, ruffling his dark hair even further, astray from probably running his hands through it all day; a gentle hand cups Dean’s own, ink dying his wrist where it’s visible underneath his coat sleeve. Inexplicably, Dean reaches out to touch him, splaying his hand over Castiel’s heart to feel it beat. “This isn’t a dream,” he says, almost to himself, digging his fingers into the front of Castiel’s scrubs. “This—This is real.”

“You should come inside,” Castiel says, just as soft as his fingertips. “Out of the cold, where we can talk.”

Talk. Talking sounds good; being warm, even better.

Castiel’s apartment overlooks a good swath of Lawrence, higher up than Dean has ever seen the city. His entire apartment smells of vanilla and sugar, cloyingly sweet and every bit of comfort Dean never thought he needed, just from scent alone. For what his furniture lacks in style, it makes up for in comfort; the couch feels just as good as any bed Dean has ever laid on, draped in an even softer blanket and adorned with pillows.

“I sleep here most of the time,” Castiel says after he hangs up his coat by the door. Dean watches him walk, sleep once again tugging at the back of his brain. “I get paid enough for my services, but I don’t spend a lot of time here.”

“Figured that,” Dean yawns, a hand over his mouth. “Where do you go when you’re not here, anyway?”

“I travel, mostly.” Seating himself, Castiel leans back into the cushions, letting out a breath through his nose. “To other cities, to heal whoever needs it. I’m only in Kansas for a few days at a time, before I’m gone again.”

“Sounds lonely,” Dean mumbles. Again, he yawns, this time leaning his head on Castiel’s shoulder. “Woke me up.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, sounding all the bit genuine. “You can go home if you’d prefer.”

Dean shakes his head. “Can’t be alone right now. Sammy just… No one gets it.” Eyes closed, he finds Castiel’s wrist and curls his fingers around it, just to ground himself, to remind himself that he isn’t alone. “I know everyone’s different, but… This was constant. Every second, all I felt was fire, and now I’m… supposed to live without it? Like it all never happened?”

“Most people are grateful,” Castiel says. He turns his hand over, allowing Dean to thread his fingers through the gaps, clinging tight. “Other’s though, have found it hard to cope.”

“Understatement.” Dean sighs. “Is it… ever gonna be normal? I’ve lost so much, Castiel, I’ve… I had to drop out of school, I could never get a job because some days, I just couldn’t move. I should be in college, I should have friends, but… What am I supposed to do?”

Someday, the tears will stop. Someday, Dean will stop berating himself over his failures, both of his own creation and not. Right now, he revels in the feel of Castiel drawing him into his arms, full-bodied and soothing. Warm, like a hug should be, not pins and needles and a simmering flame burning just underneath the skin. “You live,” Castiel tells him, whispering close to his ear. “I know it’s hard, but this pain does not define you, and its absence doesn’t make you any less of a person. You deserve to feel the breeze against your skin, to see the sun without crying. You deserve to embrace your family, to comfort your friends. You deserve to love yourself, and all that it entails.”

As easy as it sounds, Dean knows it’s impossible. Or, it only feels impossible, from just how vast the world is at his fingertips. But just because he’s capable now, doesn’t mean he can. Recovery takes time, especially in the absence of something he’s come to know for so long. “I don’t think I can,” Dean admits, voice cracking. Never once does Castiel admonish him, just strokes through his hair while Dean cries, soaking a wet patch into the front of his scrubs. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t… Is it bad, that I miss it?”

“It’s not,” Castiel says. “And I don’t blame you. But this is a new start for you, and you should cherish it. You can start over, Dean.” He presses a kiss into Dean’s hair, and Dean doesn’t even bother hiding the flush in his cheeks. “I don’t expect you to act like nothing happened, but it’ll take time. Time that you have now. Time I hope you never take for granted.”

“I won’t,” Dean says. The last thing he wants is to go back; now, he has his entire life ahead of him, if he’s willing to take it. “Will you be there, though?” He doesn’t bother to sit up to see Castiel’s reaction, too ashamed to admit that this is something he wants—that without even knowing Castiel, Dean wants him to be a part of his life, even if he isn’t in Kansas for majority of it. “I swear, this isn’t Stockholm syndrome or something, I just… You’re nice to me. You saved me.”

A steady hand runs up his spine, over the leather of his coat, and eventually rests over the back of his head; tender, almost loving. “We could be neighbors,” Castiel says, mirthful. “I’ve never gotten to know my neighbors before.”

“I’m a great neighbor,” Dean snorts, too watery to be anything near pleasant. What he really needs is a tissue box. “I’m gonna learn to cook just to repay you.”

“Speaking of that, I want to return your brother’s money,” Castiel confesses.

This time, Dean does sit up, bracketing Castiel, hands buried in the couch arm. “Why would you do that?” he asks, vaguely aware that he’s crying again.

Without hesitation, Castiel cups Dean’s cheek, thumbing away the wetness under his eye. “You’re special,” he soothes. “I saw it the moment I met you. I couldn’t take your money, knowing how badly you both needed it. Meeting you was more than enough.”

If they weren’t basically strangers, Dean might kiss him. “You’re a sap,” he says, eventually resettling himself against Castiel’s chest. Castiel’s heart pounds on, a steady rhythm he uses to calm himself, to ease the residual anxiety, to still his heart. “Thank you, for… everything you’ve done. You didn’t have to pity me like that.”

“It’s not pity,” Castiel promises. Again, he kisses Dean’s hair, settles his arms around Dean’s back. “It’s love. Something you deserve.”

Love. Such a fleeting thing, something Dean has never gotten to experience, not until now. With that thought alone, he starts to believe—starts to imagine himself in the life he wants to create for himself. And, he hopes as he closes his eyes and drifts off, that Castiel will be there too.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for MONTHS and while juggling three other fics, I finally decided to finish this one. Short and sweet, and I hope you like it! I submitted this for review in the Profound Net chat, so thank y'all for reading and loving the snippet I shared!
> 
> Title is from the BIGMAMA song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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